


Winter's Breath

by TheNuclearWitch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Torture, Dragon Age Origins Cameos, Drunkenness, F/M, Ferelden, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Leto - Freeform, Love/Hate, Magister Hawke, Minrathous, Non-Canon Relationship, Rude Fenris, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slave Fenris, Slave Liberation, Slavery, Slow Burn, Which somehow makes sense to me, Young Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNuclearWitch/pseuds/TheNuclearWitch
Summary: One day, she swore, I'll free them all.What an odd thing to do in the City of Chains. The mere prospect of freeing slaves is foreign to the Tervene Magisters.Hawke's glad then that she has always thought herself a Fereldan. Perhaps it was her Fereldan nature that led her to attempt to free the most stubborn, dangerous, mage-hating slave she has ever laid eyes upon—Or maybe it was because she loved him.





	1. Cold Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, well, I'm late to the AO3 Dragon Age party aren't I?  
> Hope there are still some Fenris fans out there reading aa  
> I'm kinda hesitant to actually post this though--  
> I've already written ahead but yk I'm gonna check for feedback before updating  
> It's been so much fun writing this and I hope you guys like it too  
> OH! and yes, Hawke's name is Tyarra. Which I hope you all don't mind--  
> But anyway, hope you enjoy the exposition!

Tevinter winters are unlike those in Ferelden—the dawning sun still shone brightly on the land, bathing its people with warmth while the cool winter breeze makes everything all the more bearable. All these memories, of course, were drawn from the very recesses of Tyarra Hawke's mind. She's only been in Ferelden twice for she was born and, later on before the twins were conceived, spent a winter there.

She could remember the cool mornings and the freezing evenings—how the frost nipped at her fingers if she stood out too long and how her breath would take form in the air as if it were magic. It was the simplest of wonders that made her cheeks warm with glee despite the rather harsh environment—well, that was before she had realized that she _was_ magic—before she had accidentally set fire to her cloak when she tried to warm herself.

Now, the little Hawke had always felt ill during the winter not because of the lack of snow—or ice—or actual _cold_ —but because of the long rooted tradition of visiting her uncle. The fond memories of snow blanketing the fields have been tainted with the very prospect of his hand on a whip as he beats his slaves in front of them. And it did not make a difference what hour he'd beat them since she could still hear their screams as they echoed in her mind.

Each year they would visit her uncle or he would visit them depending on what he and her father would agree on. She did not understand why or how her father could condone her uncle's behaviour—they weren't brothers after all. In fact, she never wanted to ask in what way she was related to that man.

She was just relieved that she couldn't see his estate from where she sat while she stared out the window. The man she had to call her uncle lived on the other side of Minrathous and she was grateful to not have it disrupt her idle daydreams of Ferelden—of how winter should truly look like as well as the thought of riding Griffons and fighting bandits. Her chambers were stationed high up in a tower like one would think a damsel would be chained to—but she didn't think herself a damsel, in fact, she imagined herself a hero of sorts like those in foreign stories she would hear from her father or overhear from their—she cringed the word— _slaves_.

 _One day_ , she swore, _I'll free them all._

What an odd thing to do in the City of Chains. The mere prospect of freeing slaves is foreign to the Tervene Magisters—Tyarra's glad then, that she has always thought herself a Fereldan like her father. If there was anyone fit to rule this city, it would be her father, she thought. She knew her father would never torture their— _slaves_ even though it was expected of him—of them. He had always raised her and her siblings better than that, much to the annoyance of their fellow nobility.

The sun shone bright and nearly blinded Tyarra as it rose higher up from the horizon. She knew it was just a matter of time before they left.

" _Tyarra!_ " She turned her head toward the door as a shrill voice came echoing through the hall beyond it and then came a thundering of steps on the stone floor.

Her younger sister, a girl five years younger than she was, came rushing into Tyarra's chambers with her hair unkempt and a stream of tears staining her face.

"Bethany," Tyarra sighed out as she got up from where she sat near the windowsill, careful not to step over the large malbari that now perked its head up at the sudden intrusion. "What have you and Carver been up to this time?" She smiled wryly as she placed her hand upon Bethany's cheek, wiping her tears away with the pad of her thumb.

Bethany's quivering lips parted as to speak but before she could the doors barged open, and her twin, face darkened with ash, stepped through. He ran to Tyarra's side, pushing his twin away in his stride as he did.

"Don't listen to her! She's a liar!" He rubbed at his eye with the base of his palm and Bethany scowled, dropping her victimized facade.

"I am _not!_ "

"You're the one who started it!"—Carver turned to his older sister—"She tried to _burn_ my face off!"

" _Liar!_ " She prodded his side and he winced, " _You_ started it when you ripped my pretty dress with your _stupid_ sword!"

"It was an accident! Unlike you—"

"Will you both just calm yourselves?" Tyarra's voice rose above theirs and an abrupt silence fell over the room. The two turned to face their older sister as she ran a hand through her hair. "Look at you—you both look like you've been attacked by flaming hounds," she sighed out and noticed Carver's half singed brow as well as the fringed cloth that stuck out of the slash in the side of Bethany's pale yellow dress skirt. She rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly weary of the time, "I'm afraid the arguments would have to wait though. We have less than an hour before we leave, you know. Father and mother will have my head if he saw you both in this state."

Their eyes widened and gleamed with guilt. Oh, they were quite adorable.

Tyarra's gaze softened and she smiled, bending down to take both her siblings in her arms. "Don't worry you two; this shall be our little secret. But if father or mother asks, I'll tell them a great dragon tried to swoop you both up to be its dinner."

The twins laughed against their sister's shoulder and she rubbed their backs gently. She couldn't imagine how they would be like arguing when they got older.

"Come now," she said and pulled away, "let's fix you both up."

———————

"Where are they?" Malcolm Hawke's deep booming voice echoed through the halls in frustration. They would be late if delayed any further. He stood tall with his wife, Leandra Amell, by the entryway of their estate. Two elven women stood by at the side and shook their heads in response. His hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose in distraught.

"I'm sure they're just checking if they had left anything, love," Leandra said as she smoothed her neatly braided hair, as well as the firm cloth of her husband's robe which also functioned as armour.

"Tyarra's malbari has yet to be seen," he said, noticing the lack of the earthy musk that the hound left behind wherever it treads. "I highly doubt she plans on leaving that tower of hers anytime soon."

"You can't blame her, Malcolm; you _know_ how much she hates it there."

"And for that I am glad," he reaches for his wife's hand and squeezes it gently in his.

"I found them, _Dominus_ ," a grey haired elven woman appeared through the arch that led to the main hall with two small dark haired twins, their honey coloured eyes brightened as they rushed to their father's side, hugging his legs and then their mother's. "Is there anything else you need, _Dominus?_ "

"You're dismissed, thank you," he waves the old elven woman away and turns to his children who now stood before them. Carver looked like a soldier in his stance—the way one would look before facing a great battle on a field and Bethany—as graceful as ever with her pale orange dress. As for his eldest—"Where's your sister?"

The twins eyed each other and back to their father. He shouldn't have asked.

"Of course," Malcolm sighed, and drew a deep breath before dismissing himself.

———————

Tyarra had only left her spot upon the windowsill to fix her hair—nothing intricate, just braids that swept her shoulder length hair back with a red band, letting her side swept bangs remain. Her red and black dress puffed where she brought her legs up beneath her to make room for her malbari, Thorin, who as always guarded her side. The breeze was cool against her cheeks and it blew against her hair as she stared down at the array of carriages that would take them away to that slaughterhouse. She knew the slaughtering would not be directed at them and quite frankly that made her feel all the more ill. She would have to stay there for a week—which in all honestly felt like an eternity. She thought she'd be used to it now—seeing him mistreat his slaves but every year it would be different. He'd have a new set of slaves—young and old; new faces of dread and despair—new ways to torment them all. Her fist tightened against her dress at the thought and frost began to form on her whitened knuckles.

"Keep at it and it'll begin to snow in Tevinter."

"That isn't such a bad thing," she said playfully, not bothering to turn to face her father. "There would be storms and mounds of snow that would stop us from reaching uncle's estate—if he really _is_ my uncle though. He looks far too old for that. And I wouldn't miss _cousin_ —at _all_."

Malcolm sighed and took a spot beside his daughter. "I know it must be difficult to try to see the reasons behind our visits—"

" _Very_ ,"

"—but in time, you will." He continued and at length, added, "Once you're older, I will explain everything, Tyarra, I promise," he places a hand on his daughter's cheek and presses a kiss against her brow. "For now, you must behave yourself—and by that I mean: _don't_ go trying to freeze his water as he drinks it."

Tyarra bit back a laugh but she couldn't help the wide grin that surfaced. She remembered that moment well. It was a short lived grin however; she knew they had to leave and when her father prompted that they do, she followed without question. Leaving home was always difficult but the little Hawke managed. She knew she couldn't sway her father against visiting her crazed so-called uncle.

She knew little of politics between Magisters in this city beyond what she had read in her books and what she's been taught. She wanted to go out into the world—live, breathe, fight, and bleed—instead of just accounting for how others have done so. Yet she read regardless—of the Free Marches and Ferelden tales mostly—during her stay at her uncle's estate since there was nothing else to do there other then talk and eat and sleep and shit.

She huffed when she realized how many promises she had made that day, knowing very well they're just words that mean nothing if she doesn't take action.

The trip to her uncle's estate took no more than a three hours ride but she didn't notice the time pass as she dreamt in the Fade. Her head rested against Thorin's side while she used the large hound as a pillow. Her head shot up when the carriage shook and rattled as it passed on the stony path that led to the ornate estate ahead of it. Tyarra dusted herself off and fixed her hair—all the while ignoring the shushed bickering off the twins who sat across her—and looked out the window. She slumped in distraught at the sight of the manor that grew ever closer.

She turned to the twins who appeared to have gone quiet, concerned for their sister. They haven't been visiting there for as long as she has so she couldn't really blame them for not yet sharing her grim attitude toward the place. The manor was beautiful no doubt. One would think it a place where a handsome prince or lord would reside to feed outcasts or to do whatever handsome princes do when they're not brushing their hair or kissing the hands of maidens. The manor was intricate in every sense of the word and large enough to probably house hundreds of people—or slaves in this case. She gave the twins a wry smile and straightened her back just as the carriage stopped.

The door was opened and she was met with the hand of an elf she had never seen before. "Mistress," he had said. _A new one..._ , she thought bitterly and prayed to the Maker that the one he replaced did not suffer. She took his hand with a smile but did not meet his eye as she stepped down from the carriage and walked to the large front doors where her father and mother waited with her uncle and— _Maker, have mercy on me_ —her cousin.

Thorin had followed suit behind her, as well as Carver—who pushed his twin on his way out the carriage—and Bethany. The two rushed past their older sister and made their way to their mother's side while Tyarra took her spot beside her father's.

Her uncle laughed, "Your children have grown since the last time I saw them, Malcolm,"

"They don't seem to stop growing," she felt her father's hand pat her back gently as he chuckled.

"And your eldest? How is her training?"

"Going quite smoothly if I say so myself. She favours ice magic as it seems—says it's to keep cool during the summer," the two laughed and she managed a smile, "And what of your niece?"

 "Hadriana is a quick learner; I'll give you that, Malcolm." he smiled and his niece—the _snake_ —stood tall beside him, "They'll both be strong Magisters one day, I bet," she felt his steely grey eyes on her and she met his gaze. "You all must be weary from the travel," he looked back to her father, "Come, we'll have more to discuss over a glass of wine."

Tyarra watched as the large ornate doors were opened by two elves—which she could have sworn were statues. Her uncle and father entered first, conversing in the trade tongue and occasionally laughing. Meanwhile, the snake took her place beside Tyarra and wore a large grin. Oh, the things Tyarra would do to wipe it off the bitch's smug face.

"If it isn't my dear cousin," she said.

"It's—" _disgusting, infuriating, appalling_ "—a pleasure to see you again, cousin,"

The snake chuckled and Tyarra wore a practiced smile before facing forward to see her uncle presenting someone—an elf—to her father. The elf was rather tall. He was young despite the dark circles around his pensive green eyes; perhaps, he was no more than a few years older than she was. His skin was bronze and his dark black hair is unkempt while his bangs fell over his thick furrowed brows. His hands were clasped behind his back and he wore a loose white tunic over his dark leather breeches. He looked nervous—as if his heart was to leap out his throat at any moment but he did not quiver —perhaps, that was because he held his breath.

She hadn't realized that she'd been staring when she heard an unwelcome whisper in her ear, "Do you like what you see? I don't blame you; he's a handsome little slave isn't he? He hasn't been here long," she kept her face stoic; "But uncle seems to favour him for now." _For now_...

"He's nearly perfect," she heard him—her uncle—say and looked up to see him stroke the elf's cheek before he gripped his chin in his hand to inspect the elf's face. "My boy," he said, his hand dropping to his side.

"Yes, _Dominus?_ "

"Always lost in thought, this one,"—he says to her father,—"Constantly forgets to pay respect to my visitors." He turns to the elven boy who trembled ever so slightly, "But when it comes to my _kin_ , I will not tolerate disrespect."

The elf's voice seemed to hitch in his throat as he forced himself to his knees, "I apologize," he quickly added, " _Dominus_ , I—I had not realized my mistake. _Please_ —"

"It will not happen again, pet," his voice was cold and the air tainted with a dark aura as the elf began to choke, blood suddenly spraying from his mouth. Tyarra's jaw clenched at the sight—all the more when she caught a glimpse of the snake's smirk. She wanted to burn him where he stood. The boy's head dropped lower to the ground and he writhed in agony.

"Danarius," her father spoke up and the man looked at him with a blank expression, "Where is that wine you so eagerly spoke of?"

The man that she regretted to call her uncle laughed and the elf began to gasp for air as his hand clawed at his throat. "Pet," he called, "Fetch us some wine, the _Aggregio_ _Pavali_ ," he didn't even bother to look at him.

"Of course, _Dominus,_ " the boy's voice was strained and rough but her uncle did not seem to care. The elf bowed his head and promptly left the room as if nothing had happened.

The man looked at Tyarra's father with a shrug, "Like I said: he's _nearly_ perfect."

The little Hawke took her spot against the windowsill of her chambers in the estate and felt more ill than she had been this morning. Her hand unconsciously grasped her throat as she remembered the thought of the elven boy choking before her eyes. She regretted watching—just standing there as the life was almost stifled out of him. _Coward_ , she thought to herself while she ran her hand through her hair.

The thick book laid out beside her caught her eye and she sighed. _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , it read on the title. Why couldn't she be like them—like the heroes of Ferelden—the Grey Wardens that rode off into battle on Griffons against the Darkspawn? _One day_ , she thought then added, correcting herself: _you're no hero._

She heard her malbari bark and smiled to herself—remembering her faithful companion and their misadventures—as she continued to stare out the window. . "At least the food here is quite nice right, boy?" _The people not so much so,_ she thought. Thorin continued to bark.

"What is it, Thorin? Spot the Witch of the Wilds?" She laughed but it faded as soon as she turned her head to find the snake and her smug face standing against the door to her chambers. She waved at Thorin so he'd stand down.

"Is your head always stuck in Ferelden, cousin?" She chuckled and drew closer to her. Maker, she hates this side of the family, "We're in _Tevinter_ , you know."

"You'll never know. Perhaps the Witch of the Wilds turned into a dragon and flew to Minrathous to visit."

Hadriana laughed, "Speaking of...," before the snake could continue, she already had her hand on Tyarra's arm and Thorin nearly jumped to bite the snake back if she hadn't shook her head discretely at the hound. She pulled her up and closed the distance between them. She hissed in her ear, "I saw you staring at him."

"At whom?" she shrugged, "I like to stare at lot of people."

"The slave—the _elf_ ," When Tyarra didn't reply, she continued with a sly roll of her eyes, "Black hair, green eyes, bronze skin, knees on the ground, spitting blood—"

"Yes, I think, I recall seeing him upon entering our uncle's estate."

The snake laughed, "I don't blame you for wanting him—he's quite _good_ , you know, or so uncle tells me. Maybe if you ask nice enough, uncle will let him play with you too." Tyarra couldn't have felt _sicker_. "But he isn't perfect."

She sounded like her uncle—a young, less subtle, easier to smack, version of her uncle.

"So I've heard," she muttered and at length, spoke louder, "What brings you here, cousin? I doubt you walked that great length between our rooms just to remind me of the elven boy."

"Oh, cousin," she feigned hurt, "That tongue of yours is sharp enough to cut,"—

 _If truly was I'd already have you bleeding on the floor, cousin_.

—"But I'm sure you're already well aware of that," she laughed, "I came here to tell you of a little surprise uncle and I put together for you, just so you know."

"And what would that be?"

"That would ruin the surprise now, won't it, cousin?" She turned on her heel to leave but stopped before the doorway and added, "Just make sure his heart is still beating, cousin, we still need him," and with that, she was gone.

Tyarra could still remember the last time Hadriana had given her a surprise. They were both ten years of age and her cousin had put on a little show for Tyarra with the help of their uncle. She should have never trusted her. They had the slaves' mouths gagged in the atrium then as uncle Danarius made them dance and move and fight each other while Hadriana had narrated Tervene History from her lessons. All while Tyarra watched as the slaves muffled their cries and begged her to save them. The sounds of their bones cracked as their flesh and bone moved against their will. Her uncle choked back his laughter while Tyarra chocked back her tears. In the end, Hadriana had haphazardly carved the sigil of the Tevinter Imperium into one of the slave's chest. A dragon and a snake bled into the elf's skin. _"Did you like the puppet show, cousin?"_ her voice rang through Tyarra's ears.

Tyarra clamped her hands over them and let out a shaky breath. Her brows furrowed and knit together. She wanted to scream—she wanted to be rid of this demon. Her ears began to numb. It was cold—so _cold_.

She pried her hands away from her head and stared at her hands that trickled with frost. She sighed and placed her hand on the windowsill—she withdrew it quickly when a sudden pain left her aghast. She stared at her hand again. Three pricks from her palm bled a dark red. She turned to the window and now noticed the shards of ice along the ridge, the haze that blurred the glass.

A weight suddenly wrought itself upon her lap and Tyarra muffled a laugh when the large malbari licked her face in concern before proceeding to lick her wounds. She didn't resist and merely stroked Thorin's head in thanks when her hand had ceased bleeding.

"Mistress?"

She turned to the open doorway where an elf stood; his dark hair covered his eyes as he stared at the ground between them.

Tyarra assessed the room with a breath caught in her throat. It was a blur of white, a layer of unfallen snow hanging the air. Everything had a thin layer of ice that shone against the muted morning sun.

She turned to the elven boy. She hadn't realized how long she kept him waiting for a response.

"I'm fine," she says quietly, "Thank you—ah, I do not know your name."

His green eyes flickered to hers but then quickly settled to his feet.

"Leto."


	2. Broken Things

He had hoped she would be kind—this mistress—but then his thoughts quickly reside as he remembered that hope was a dangerous affair. He would try to please her, at least, if it proved to his master that he was capable enough. He thought of his sister and his mother. He _hoped—_

"Leto," she called.

"Yes, mistress?" he croaked, forcing the words out of his still aching throat.

He heard the mistress laugh—did he amuse her? He looked up slightly and saw the large malbari nuzzling against her neck. He bit his tongue at the sight. It took him a great effort to cease the relentless thoughts of the mistress letting her hound tear his limbs apart. _Behave and please her_ , he repeated in his mind, _behave and please her, behave and—_

"Did my uncle send you?" Her voice was soft, yet again—to tempt him to let his guard down, he supposed and shuddered. He hoped she didn't notice.

"Yes, mistress," he dropped to his knees and nearly gasped at the sudden coldness of the ground against his forehead and beneath his hands, "I am to serve you during your stay, mistress. I have been disrespectful."

He heard her sigh and the hound's paws thud against the floor. He curled against the cool floor in fear. He hadn't done anything and yet—was he not enough? Was his mere presence sickening? He felt the vibrations of the ground as the mistress approached and stopped before him.

"Leto," her voice was louder due to their proximity, "Stand up, please."

He did as he was told.

His shoulders tensed when her hand had reached out to him. Her fingers withdrew but her hand still hung between them. "Don't fret," she said and he didn't believe her. He knew that one would calm sheep before slaughtering them as to not spoil the meat. Her hand was warm on his neck and his gaze fell to her bright blue eyes. Her thumb brushed against his throat and he swallowed.

A cool wave rushed against his flesh and his brows furrowed in confusion. He kept his eyes on hers regardless of the blue glow that radiated from the hand she kept on his neck. She was cursing him, no doubt, with her gaze and soft hands and ruthless magic and yet—why does he feel...

"Better?" She asked. Her lips curled into a smile and he felt her fingers linger at his jaw before she let her hand drop to her side.

He grasped at his neck, it didn't throb like it used to. He—He felt no pain and yet he felt played, confused. 

"Yes," he blurted despite himself—he quickly added, " _mistress,_ " hoping she would not notice. He would not allow his guard to drop despite the cruel game she's playing. This kindness is not without consequence—it's all a ploy to get him to break so he may be punished more brutally for his insubordination. It was _cruel_ , he knew that. No wonder she was the master's favourite.

She sighed, seemingly pleased and turned to look around her chambers. "I apologize for the mess," she huffed and he opened his mouth to speak yet she beat him to it, "I wouldn't bother having it _cleaned_ though. I suppose it'll thaw out eventually," she laughed.

It was a gentle laugh, kind—another act. He wondered how long she could keep it up.

Leto watched her throughout the day as she sat near the still opaque window, reading a large book. He could almost make out the title. _Fe—_ something; he was silently proud of himself since he hadn't really learnt how to read properly. He remembered how he would take old tattered posters and force the butcher's boy to teach him how to read it. Unfortunately, neither of them could really read well. The blind can't lead the blind after all but at least he wasn't completely in the dark unlike the other slaves.

The mistress only got up twice. Once, to stretch and apologize for being so boring and for the fact that whatever magic she had used to freeze the room had not yet worn off—he almost smiled that time but he thought better of it. Twice, to fix the red band that tied braids behind her back. It was nearly dark at that point and he moved to light the hearth across the bed.

"No need," he heard her say just as he prodded at the wood. "Unless you suppose it'll help our little situation? No? Well, it's a good thing I've always fancied snow."

"Of course, mistress," He nodded and returned to his station. He was quick to return to his musings but she continued to speak and he forced himself to listen.

"You've been awfully quiet," she said and he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

"My apologies," he lowered his head. "What would you have me say, mistress?"

She didn't speak for a while and Leto grew afraid that he offended her. His hands shook and he balled them into fists behind his back as he thought of ways to amend himself.

"May I ask how you came into my uncle's service?"

The way she spoke made it seem like she wasn't commanding him—like he could deny her. Or at least, he convinced himself that it was so but then again...

"I—if the mistress would pardon me—I," he said and recalled the blood he spilt and the way he silenced the screams that came after, "I cannot speak of it..."

The air grew stale between them when the mistress did not reply. Should he have told her? He did not know what she wanted to hear. Should he tell her that he wanted this—that he _yearned_ to be a slave to his master who had promised him a power far greater than _any_ magic that no man could ever attain? That he knew and accepted the price he'd have to pay for it with his own flesh and blood. He supposed that whatever power that was promised would be worth the lashes and burns and the hands on his body—around his neck. He wondered if she would have been satisfied if he had told her.

The _mistress_ —he corrected himself.

He winced, his instinct making him jerk back before he could even snap back to reality. She stood before him her hand outstretched near his face, close but it had yet to brush against his skin. If she was to strike him down she would have already done so, he thought but then recalled how well she puts up that delicate mask of hers.

"May I?" Her voice was below a whisper, yet it was loud enough for him to hear. He nodded.

Her hand was soft—no, _hands_ —they were soft as they framed his face. He tried not to shudder. He was tired of this game—he wanted no part of it any longer. This false kindness—this false _concern_ that she spewed out whenever she spoke or looked at him with those cold blue eyes—it burned.

"It's alright, Leto," she said, "I understand."

His eyes met hers and he held his breath. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. She was so close that he could hear her shallow breathing—see the way she had her lower lip between her teeth. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she actually did care—but he _knew_ this was an act. It was all a part of ceaseless game. Of course, it was. That was the only thing that held any sense.

Her lips curved into a forced smile as she sighed, "Why don't we go and check if dinner is ready?"—her hands left his face and clasped behind her back—"And if it isn't, well, I might as well go and eat the silverware." She laughed and walked past him, her dog followed suit and so did he.

The halls were empty when they had arrived save the few slaves that were posted around, prepared to be ordered and to obey. It wasn't like the master to be late perhaps he had been preoccupied with something of great importance. Though when half an hour passed Leto could not help but feel unnerved. He was unsure if someone had done the master wrong today since he spent it with the mistress. He hoped he wouldn't have to return to the slave quarters to know that the master now needed another slave to replace one he had _lost_.

The mistress's father arrived momentarily and yet the master—as well as their dinner—was still nowhere in sight. He stood not far behind them and he could clearly remember the man who had shared wine with the master earlier. Leto brought a hand up to brush against his neck, recalling the incident—and immediately brought it back behind his back when he remembered how the mistress's hand felt against it. He shook the feeling away and yet it lingered. It was cruel like she was and yet—the feeling was not unwelcome.

He turned up to look at her and her father and he could not help but notice how the mistress and her father stared longingly at the silverware like they wanted to gnaw on it like how the mistress's hound gnawed a stolen braised lamb's leg beneath the table. Leto's suspicions were confirmed when he had overheard the mistress's father mutter to his daughter: "Wonder how these would taste?" with a hearty laugh that rang through the halls. He tried to hide his smile and the red that somehow managed to seep into his cheeks when the mistress had turned and beamed at him in regard.

 _No,_ he thought and reminded himself of how cruel and vile she was.

Two children ran into the dining room, chasing each other while they wiped the crumbs—but not the smiles—off their mouths. All the while the mistress's mother sat herself beside her husband. An elven woman— _one of theirs_ —stood watch beside her masters while she watched the children. For a moment, Leto remembered his sister—how they'd play in the gardens while their mother worked. They had not known the burden of slavery then. _At least they are free and_ _perhaps, one day I—_

The master entered the dining room with his niece trailing behind him as if they had heard his thoughts and the sweet wish of freedom that slaves were not permitted to consider. He would not think of it again, he promised himself silently.

"I do apologize for our tardiness," master said and Leto rushed across the room to pull back the chair he was to sit on. The master waved a hand at him and he promptly returned to where he stationed behind the mistress. The two children rushed past and one—the girl—held a small flame in her hand as she chased her brother out the room in laughter. The elven woman beside the mistress's mother breathed a sigh.

"Pardon me, _Domina_ ," she had said with a short bow to her masters.

The mistress's mother nodded and said, "Don't let them stray too far," before the woman left.

"My apologies as well, Danarius," the mistress's father began, "The twins and the dog have taken a liking to your pantry, I'm afraid. You're going to have to change your locks to something more fire resistant."

The master laughed, "I shouldn't have expected less from denying a Hawke its meal."

"Especially if that Hawke can breathe fire."

They all laughed or chuckled to themselves but Leto continued to watch and lost himself to his thoughts. Not long after, the food had arrived and Leto poured wine and served his masters. After each service, he returned to his post behind the mistress and stared at the red band that tied her hair.

"Danarius," the mistress's father said, "What have you been up to? And spare me the details of your incessant beard grooming."

"Suspecting me of sedition already, Malcolm?"

"What else could be keeping you from these little feasts of yours then?"

"Something _revolutionary_ ," the master laughed, "though we should discuss this later, Malcolm— _Pet_ ," he called and Leto snapped himself out of his trance, "Wine,"—

Leto promptly moved to fetch the bottle on the side table nearby and proceeded to pour into the master's empty glass.

—"As I was saying, it's much easier to discuss with the tomes I have gathered."

"Ah, I grant this would be a _long_ discussion then. You might as well save a bottle or two for later, Danarius. Unless you plan on drinking as well since I am not one to share," the man chuckled.

Leto managed to glance up at the mistress as he poured. She had a smile upon her face though it was unlike the other times she had done so—it was cold, practiced while she spoke with the master's niece. He could almost see the spite in the mistress's bright blue eyes.

She turned to him and her eyes filled with dread.

The master's cup drowned in wine and the once white tablecloth now soaked with its redness. He jerked the bottle upright and he swore he could have broken it from how tightly his fist clenched around its neck. He was still beside the master, staring at the mess he's made He dared to hope that it was not his fault and yet he had began begging and pleading the master to forgive him but he heard nothing but the sound of his heart thundering in his chest and the distant laughter of the master's niece.

Then the master's hand rose and all fell into a grave silence. Without a word, Leto began to clean up despite the way his hands shook and the tears that he so helplessly tried to fight back. He cursed himself ceaselessly all the while until he ran out of curses to utter and began screaming in his head.

The master had him wait outside of the slave quarters afterwards. Those who passed by him didn't meet his gaze and those who did drowned him with pity or perhaps a relief that it was not their blood that would be spilt tonight.

———

It seemed to last hours—or perhaps, much longer.

Leto could still feel the steel tips of the whip lashing across his back, digging into his skin. Occasionally they would catch and bury into his flesh until the master would pull it back even when a piece of him cut loose as well. He was just glad the master had someone else clean the floors after.

The bed was hard against his chest and his face was buried within his pillow that reeked of sweat and was stained with his tears. He thought of his sister and mother and imagined the joy they must feel after he had fought for their freedom. If not joy then at least solace and if not solace then—he just hoped that his suffering had been worth it.

He shifted on the bed and the pain was sharp enough to withdraw him from his thoughts which had ever so slightly numbed his agony. Even the way his shoulders would rise and fall as he breathed and so he took comfort in holding his breath, absently trying to see how long before he suffocated. Then he would take a long shuddering breath as he took in the pain brought unto him when his back would flex and the wounds that slashed across it opened or fold into itself.

The door had creaked open and closed not a moment after. He stilled himself. But then he heard the familiar sound of a wet washcloth being wrung into a basin filled with water and he allowed himself a breath of relief no matter how painful it had been.

The washcloth brushed against his back and he writhed and forced his head down into the pillow as his hands balled into fists. He noted their hesitation and he stilled himself again to allow them to continue though it still hurt, no matter how gentle the touch was.

And then came— _something._

A sensation that he couldn't quite remember and yet he felt—

Better.

The pain had waned though it was still present and he nearly choked on his own spit. _It can't be—_ he turned his head away from the pillow to see if his suspicions were—

He saw an elven girl with pale yellow hair and green eyes. She was young and held a small jar of poultice in her hand. His shoulders slumped in dismay and he returned to pressing his face against the dingy pillow. It had been the numbness in his back combined with the soothing sensation of the poultice, he supposed, that led him to believe that it was magic— _her_ magic. He was a fool to even consider—to even _hope_ that the mistress would even come to him. But the feeling of her hand on his neck, the sound of her kind words, the gentle look in her blue eyes gave him a sense of peace though it may be an act—a ploy in order for him to experience a pain that was beyond bruised skin and bloody wounds. He sobbed quietly into the pillow while half-heartedly admitting that he'd rather pretend that she was truly kind—that she truly came just so he could feel happy even for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered how Leto might have been since as far as I know he wasn't sold into slavery at a young age so he'd still have a tinge of fight left in him. And I think he'd still be kinda open to affection cause yk that's homey and comforting   
> Anyway, hope you guys are enjoying so far aaa


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